Saturday, March 31, 2007

An East Village Night Recalled

You may remember Crazy Dan, who was 86'd from Sidewalk Cafe for his behavior in a blackout "There must be some mistake!" he cried, but there wasn't. He's since found out that on the night he doesn't remember, he was with his flight attendant friend Miss Mimi.

Miss Mimi is a wild thing who wears the same skimpy outfits she did at 20, even though she is now 40. Usually they are flimsy bright colored spaghetti strap dresses that barely reach the upper thigh. She is so wild and in-your-face that people think she's either a) a hooker, or b) a drag queen. Miss Mimi is neither, she is just one bodacious black woman. We love her.

Turns out that on the night in question, Miss Mimi and Crazy Dan were in Sidewalk Cafe, completing a heavy night of drinking. Apparently they weren't being served fast enough.

Miss Mimi moved her neck: "Where's our drinks?"
Waiter: "We can't serve you anymore"
Miss Mimi: "Get the mollasses out your ass, and get our drinks!"
Waiter: "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to leave."

According to Crazy Dan's source (a horrified witness), at this point Miss Mimi stood on top of the booth, pointed a long red fingernail and screamed, "Is this because I'm black?!"
Crazy Dan slammed his fists on the table to join in. "This is racial!"

The wait staff threatened to call the police, and Miss Mimi retorted, "I'll call the motherfuckin police myself!" and she got out her phone to dial 911. Crazy Dan, in his drunken fog, stood up on the booth, too, shouting "Martin Luther King!" which got Miss Mimi all the more excited. "Martin Luther King stood his ground," she howled, "I'm standing my ground too!!"

They both stood their ground until the police indeed showed up.

Then they peeled themselves from the furniture and ran.

Crazy Dan says he'll try to sneak back into Sidewalk Cafe around summertime when "they've forgotten me." Since the events of that evening, Miss Mimi has escaped back to Las Vegas where she is based. Presumably, she can be found standing her ground on the strip.

Friday, March 30, 2007

Walter Kurtz

I've been friends with the versatile photographer Walter Kurtz for several years. He's taken several series of shots with me, including the shirtless one that will appear on the cover of my upcoming book, "You Can Run." (click to see it)

Walter Kurtz is a pseudonym ripped off from Joseph Conrad's Colonel in "Heart of Darkness" ...the one who utters famous testament to his villanous life in his last breath: "the horror, the horror. " Kurtz' photography, however, is far from a horror. He has gotten much acclaim for his photographs of the male nude. Check them out on his website.

I used to appear all over the "portraits" page, but have now been reduced to his "warning" page (I'm old news). Walter generally shoots indoors at his studio in the west village, but these days he's branching outside.

On Wednesday, Walter took me up to the chilly roof of a Lower East Side multi-use building for some silly/serious shots.

"Jumping Jesse" - this is so me.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Gay Pride 2007

The "emergency" gay pride meeting has happened, and we've selected a theme for 2007:
"Long Live the Queens!" We'll all have crowns in common, but the skimpy outfits should be rather diverse, featuring queens throughout history such as:

Cleopatra, Marie AnnTwatNot, Elizabeth I, Queen of the Damned, Queen of Pop, the Queen Bee, Queen of hearts, and Anita Private morphing to "Anita Seatbelt" the almost queen, Lady Di(ed).

I'm not sure who I'll be yet, though I want something original. I thought of "Queen size bed" but who wants to carry a mattress around? I want to be pretty! I welcome suggestions.

Look for us on New York City's Fifth Avenue this June 24th!

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Gay Pride 2006

I got the call last week. "Emergency 911! We have to have the emergency gay pride meeting!" Emergency because you know, gay pride is in June. March is a rather late start.

Each year we strip down, strap on heels, and hit the streets to infiltrate New York City's gay pride parade. It's always themed. One year we even appeared in the New York Times, in color!

Last year our theme was "Out of Iraq, into my Crack" which was a huge hit.

I played "Fallujah Fellatio" but a newcomer named "Anita Private" stole my thunder. She was memorable in many ways, the darkhorse, the underdog. And when one interviewer asked her, "What have you done to help the troops in Iraq?" She simply responded, "As much cocaine as possible!!"

For your viewing pleasure, I present you...Anita Private.
And the best of Infantry Troop 69, from last year.
Do ask, we tell.

Anita Private.

"Does this wig make me look fat?"

Assembled on Fifth Avenue.

I am on the left as (Fallujah Fellatio)
harrassing a cop with fellow soldier
Dolores Drafted.

Here are (from left to right):
Deserette Storm,
Fallujah Fellatio,
Condee Trationcamp, and
Baghdad Barbie

All photography by Thomas Locke Hobbs (his blog link on my right margin). If you haven't seen enough from the gay pride trenches, hit his flicker page!

Monday, March 26, 2007

Dump on the Dancefloor

What's that smell wafting through the Roseland Ballroom? It's not poppers. Most people open their mouth to make a stink, but in New York City this weekend, someone opened the other end.

I went to Alegria lastnight, the follow up party to this Saturday/Sunday's leather-loving Black Party. Most at Alegria had already been up for two days, and though they said the Black Party wasn't the best, they did confess it was memorable.

Some dude took a shit on the dance floor. People were slipping in it. The pig who did it was rolling around in it. How very...Black Party.

The organizers got it cleared the area and made a quick clean-up. Said one friend, "I thought maybe they were going to have to turn off the music!" Oh, not that. That would totally have ruined the mood.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

It's like swimming with your clothes on

I never knew drag queens got sex, at least I've never got any action in drag, but maybe I'm just ugly. And ignorant. Apparently there's a huge market for wig on dick action.

"It's 9pm," said my friend the other night. "Half an hour until Lady Bunny gives head!"

Scroll down a few posts to read about Lady Bunny's splattering experience working as a sex line operator. But now, according to her friend, she is on the horn (making dates at the reasonable hour of 9:30)....trolling for suitors of her own. Suitors may be the wrong word. I'm told her phone ad goes something like this: "Hi. If you are looking for a loving, committed relationship...HANG UP NOW!"

Lady Bunny follows that up with her description as a drag darling who likes to suck cock. But as I read on her blog today, she only practices safe oral sex. Whoa. I'm all for safe sex, but safe oral sex? Lady Bunny will be around forever, good on her. But placing a condom on a penis to put in your mouth? Is that any way to enjoy a meal?

I've kicked men out of bed for less.

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Broadway Babes

Headed up to Broadway this week to see some hot theatre, and for the record, I did not fall asleep at either one!

Mary Poppins has an unfair advantage because it has the nostalgia thing going for it. Who won't go all giddy when they hear supercalifragilisticexpialidotious? I should really know how to spell that because I'm a stickler for spelling and plus they were holding up the letters as they went along, but I wasn't any paying attention because I was tapping my foot and singing and I didn't care who heard me.
Mary was also eye-popping. The "feed the birds" number had a digital backdrop, and at one point the Dick Van Dyck character dances upside-down, right underneath the proscenium arch. He gave me vertigo from the third balcony.

And speaking of the cheap seats--they're (stage right) the best spot to see Mary up close. At the final fly-away, there she was, zooming right up at us. We paupers shifted in our seats with excitement, screaming "Mary, Mary, we love you Mary" as she glided past. Of course, that's what the people around me were yelling. I screamed something a bit different. "Show us your tits, Mary!!" I yelled, and I'm proud to say Miss Mary didn't mind. She kept right on ascending, above it all.

Grey Gardens is based on the acclaimed 1974 documentary of Jackie O's cousins "Big Edie" (the mother) and "Little Edie" (daughter) who lived in squalor inside a decrepit 28 room mansion on Long Island. The first act almost put me to sleep, but after the second act I forgave it. They had to set up the codependent love/hate relationship between mother and daughter. I'm trying to figure out what makes these characters so captivating. Despite their dual delusions, and love/hate relationship, they are both survivors. They're never victims. And who doesn't love a couple of old broads battling it out? Whatever happened to baby Jane, anyone!?

"You need to get a mop and clean this place up."

"Not today, Geraldine."

Of course I only went to see Tony frontrunner Christine Ebersol. By the end of the play Ms. Ebersole gave us a little Edie tearful over the improbability of escaping Grey Gardens. I say tears, because I was in the 4th row and saw her cry them. Now I have no idea how that woman dredges up tears 8 shows a week but she had me so emotionally engrossed, I completely forgot to ask her to flash us her tits.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Boy Culture Buzz

Boy Culture, the little indie with the big buzz, will hit screens this Friday. If you didn't see my recent post (featuring a fantastic trailer), I've got a slutty cameo. In the film I run into the hustler (X) after having a threesome with his roommates, including the fun, young one (Joey) who overdoses on my GHB. Now don't hate me. At least I didn't put it in his eyeball.

Joey is played by the adorable Jonathan Trent, who is (as of yet) straight. For the few days I was on set in Seattle, director Allan Brocka kept telling Jonathan variations of, "Watch Jesse- the way he acts, walks and talks. I want Joey to be played flamboyant like Jesse." So I take Allan aside and ask. "If you want the character to be portrayed like me, why didn't you give me the part?"

Allan just turned to me all non-chalant, "Oh honey, you're much too old."

I'm still clutching my pearls.

As a consolation, I'm credited as "Hottie" which which turned Seattle into an ego trip. On-set I actually heard radio transmissions like "Has Hottie gone through make-up?" "Could we get Hottie in first position?" "That's a copy, Hottie is on his way to set." Yes, yes, uh-huh. That's me. I may be old. Just keep calling me Hottie. Yeah. More, more. Say it again.

Lastnight there were bi-coastal film release bashes, and it was my priveledge to share Shequida's stage with the writer of Boy Culture (the novel!), Matt Rettenmund, who documented it all. He's a gem, he's a doll. We're totally gonna go on double dates.

There were rentboys to be seen (sold?), but after checking out Allan Brocka's blog of the LA promo party...the west coast has the real hottie. Who is that smoking hot Ginch Gonch boy Benjamin? If porn stars are out promoting this film, you know it's going to be great. If you're in LA or New York or San Francisco, Boy Culture opens tomorrow. See it.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Destruction for Destruction's Sake

Wandering New York City streets you often come upon bike wheels locked up, the rest of the bike missing. Stolen. It's nothing new. But every once in a while you come across a bike that wouldn't be stolen. Couldn't be stolen; a bike whose owner locked it up once, twice, thrice.

The thieves who came for easy prey discovered they couldn't get it, not even the wheel. They couldn't get anything for nothing. And so they destroyed it. Bent the wheel, fucked up the frame, ruined it. All because they couldn't steal it.

What a telling metaphor for so much senseless destruction we see today. How many people apply this same mindset to other people's property, other people, the earth at large?

"If I can't have it, nobody can!"

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Better than Crack!

Back in the mid-nineties, I used to pick up "Mini-Thins" from 7-Eleven, or any corner market- They were a mega-mix of ephedra with caffeine. They came six pills to a pack, and with 1 of them you'd be up for hours. I hated working at the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills, but after popping a couple of Mini-Thins, I truly enjoyed serving guests at the pool. I gave big gleaming smiles while suggesting, "How about an amenity with that?"

Truckers loved them too, because with a few mini-thins, you could drive from Omaha to Ottawa without ever having to stop. These puppies were as effective as methamphetamine, only much, much cheaper (and that's saying something). Mini-Thins cost only only .99 cents! For six! Those were the days.

Ephedra packs such a punch that inevitably the FDA fumed righteous with envy. Some wimpy weak-hearted baseball pitcher died from it, and he took the rest of us down with him. Ephedra was banned, and Mini-Thins disappeared off the shelves. I haven't enjoyed a day of work since. Not a day.

So imagine my thrill when rummaging through some old college stuff that I found, lo and behold, an unused pack of Mini-Thins?! Blessed treasure. My whole body railed with fond memories: The energy, the feel-good jitters, the thrilling sensation of crack on the cheap. Mini-Thins!

Mini-Thins are like twinkies and Cher:
there is no expiration date.

This packet, I determined lastnight, was from 1997. It's been a decade - they must be expired. So just to find out, I popped one in my mouth. How about another...for old times sake.

Folks, I didn't sleep one wink all night.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Take fiber for this fetish

The fun, fabulous, self-deprecating satirist, DJ, and mother of all drag Lady Bunny recently came up in conversation. One of my friends has known her a long time, back to when she worked for a phone sex line. Lady Bunny is a larger than life drag queen, but it seems she can fine tune her voice to the pitch of an actual female.

Lady Bunny. Not to be confused with Miss Manners

And because she's so bodacious, they gave Lady Bunny all the freaky, raunchy fetish phone calls. One caller that Bunny was given wanted to be shat upon. So Bunny took her time (minutes are money, honey) on the phone getting "undressed" and squatting over the man's face. She gruesomely described her fluttering anus quivering, opening up, and then BOOM! she announced to the caller "Diarrhea splashes all over your face!!"

At this the caller yelped, "Eww! Hard turds ONLY!"

He was disgruntled because, you know, there is an etiquette involved. A protocol expected. Even scat fans have compunction.

Saturday, March 17, 2007

Blackouts Make the Pain Go-Away

My friend "Crazy" Dan may be 41, but he still parties like 21. At the end of a long raucous, loud, stomping night of East Village boozing, he will slip into San Loco Burritos to order a heaping order of "Macho Nachos" and when they ask "Would you like that with chicken or beef?" he just blurts out "Both!"

Crazy Dan is by now so drunk that he shovels the heaping beef/chicken macho nachos into his mouth using only his fingers. Another spectator once described this scenario as something akin to "World Vision" infomercials.

Crazy Dan always pigs out at the end of the night, and if it's not San Loco Burritos, he heads a couple blocks down Avenue A to 6th Street. The Sidewalk Cafe is his favorite haunt because he actually goes there during the day. When he's sober. That is in addition to the end of a wild night when he is (as we put it) "in the fog."

Imagine Crazy's surprise this afternoon when he sauntered into Sidewalk Cafe and was told, "I'm sorry, but after lastnight we can't serve you anymore." What?! He was astonished. Crazy wasn't there the night before. Well, he didn't think he was there the night before. It couldn't be him. "There must be some kind of mistake!!!" he pleaded, but the staff was firm, "No," they said, "You don't remember...the police and everything?"

At this point, Crazy ran out appaled. He's since been trying to cobble together what could have happened to get him banned from Sidewalk Cafe. Sidewalk Cafe! And the Police?! He asked me what happened, but I wasn't there. At least I don't think I was there. He wasn't sure either.

As we can both attest, sometimes lastnight's fog is today's blessing.

Should any illumination be shed on this pending case, I'll be sure to make you aware...

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

I know you are, but what am I?

You'll notice in the "letters" section of OUT magazine--there's a scathing bit from a reverend (out in Illinois) who was disgusted with my February column (how I treated the 19 year old clarinet player I slept with). The reverend states that the "Jesse Archers of the world" are responsible for gay drug abuse and suicide. Wow. If I were that influential, wouldn't I have a real job?

The OUT editors let me write a response, which (lamentably) is not the response found in the magazine. What it appears I wrote looks rather gracious, and let me just make this clear: I am not, nor will I ever seek to be magnanimous. Especially with righteous people.

My actual response began with this sentence:
"I am sure, Reverend, that you are much kinder to the young men you sleep with..."

Unfortunately, my response to the reverend was heavily censored. Probably because I am responsible for so much drug addiction and suicide.

And speaking of name-calling. Yes...the conversation in this month's column is totally true. My mother called me Darth Vader. She (now) thinks it's funny. I agree with her. It's funny when parents and children reverse roles.

So what did your mother call you?

In the piece, I reference my favorite Star Wars character--for your reference, here is Greedo.

I still go ga-ga for his gorgeous go-go boots.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Sugar--it ain't always sweet

My friend Chad is going to Africa on vacation, so he's been hard at work preparing. You know, removing all his unwanted body hair.

He went balls out, so to speak, trying the latest upmarket craze in the world of hair removal: the "sugar treatment." He said (or imagines) it was worse than childbirth. "My balls," he says, "Are now as smooth as a baby's butt." Was it worth it? Like anything, Chad surmises that the greater the struggle, the more rewarding the result. On that note, since I am much hairier than Chad, he says I would appreciate a good sugaring perhaps even more than he did.

Are you a sadist who wants to buy me a session? Here's where he went.

The procedure goes like so. Lie face down, as the beautician gingerly places the secret formula (a mix of sugar and water, presumably) onto your butt and balls. Once it dries, said formula is savagely ripped off with bare hands--clearcutting your forest of follicles at the root.

I've no reason to suspect that it's any more effective than a Korean woman and some old school wax, but it's the new thing. All the rage. Probably because it costs $100.

Do they give you anything for the pain? "You're face down so you just bite the pillow," says Chad. Pillowbiting? This sounds oddly familiar.
Why face down? "Face down with your knees arching up your butt. That's the easiest way to get hair removed from your balls--in that position you can pull them apart like bats wings."
Bats wings? If any of you are still wondering, I'm back in New York.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Let's Get Maggot!

Had an amazing weekend up in Brisbane with my penpal and her husband who showed me not only how to be domestic (I mowed a lawn, walked the dogs, and learned how to barbeque...I've got photos to prove it), but also that domestic folks can still cut loose.

We began the weekend with a Brisbane pub crawl (thanks Merryn and Colin!) that led us ultimately to a straight club called "Family." At this point, I was so "maggot" (this is the Queensland term for woefully drunk) that I did a cartwheel on the dance floor and was promptly kicked out. I get drunk and do cartwheels --what's the big deal? There should be applause. But no, I was kicked out and when I protested the bouncer said I needed "a ten minute break." A ten minute break? Why not stick me in the corner with a dunce cap?

Later in the evening my gorgeous pen pal Merryn got so "maggot" that a primal survival instinct kicked in and she ended up hopping in a cab and leaving me and her husband to our own devices. As I went looking for her, a security guard tapped me on the shoulder and led me outside, "You look intoxicated," he told me. I insisted that I was only looking for my friends, but he proceeded to push me outside saying (can you believe this?) "Take a 20 minute break."

So let me just break this down:
1 cartwheel = 10 minutes break.
looking intoxicated = 20 minute break.

Wait. By this time I'm really maggot. How many minutes do I get for passing out in the bushes across the street?

Friday, March 09, 2007

It's just SO adorable

Today I spent walking around Darling Harbour in Sydney. That's right, Darling Harbor. And Sydneysiders repeat the name like it's not silly. Or funny. It's simply a name. But what if it were called SWEETIEPIE harbor? How about BABYDOLL bay? Yeah, then it's hysterical. But Darling Harbor? That's completely normal.

I've got to give it credit though, because at least it's got some semblance of originality, or maybe I mean endearment. Nothing like the states of Australia. Can you imagine--the states here are sliced up into chunks called "Northern Territory," "South Australia," "Western Australia." What creative genius came up with this? The lack of originality is reminiscent of some USA states--(New York, New Jersey, North Carolina -natch!) But seriously, is Australia a continent...or a weathervain?

Native aboriginals (woolloomooloo, didjeridoo) and Native American Indians (Dakotas, Sioux City, Oregon) left us with some unique names. Then we wiped them out and turned their few surviving leftovers into alcoholics. Now we're left with East, West, New, North...and the odd Darling Harbor. Quaint, ain't it?

Thursday, March 08, 2007

What was it?

Oh yeah....I forgot to get a JOB!!

Sydney is not cheap (food is more expensive than new york, no joke!) and I am not even going to PEEK at my bank account. It's sad but true: travel and tanning does not a rich man make.

Got any job ideas, please send them my way. Need a personal shopper? Call me.
I can do just about anything. Anything that doesn't require a spreadsheet, that is.

Below is a picture a friend sent from some e-zine. It's a compilation of Mardi Gras photos. There are the firemen, the 200 kylie impersonators, the DNA models, and in the bottom right, it's me!

Click on it to make it bigger. I'm at the base of the silver heel on the right and if you look really, really close, you can see there is a drag queen trying to keep her balance up top in the space that should've been mine (alas....the spot is rightfully hers. She is OLDER). You can note that she is doing her regal best at a cross-legged "I'm here"... but Miss Thing misses the drag queen imperative: never, never, get camouflaged into your surroundings.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

I must have blinked

Turns out that filmmaker/actor/allaroundsuperstar Casper Andreas was seen in this years Oscar telecast! He appears in the film LITTLE CHILDREN as a cop who pulls sex offender Jackie Earle Haley (in a performance so believably creepy, it probably cost him the oscar!) from a public swimming pool. The best supporting actor clip featured this very scene--with Casper in all his uniformed glory.

Unfortunately I must have been distracted. Or blinking. I missed it. But here's hoping that next time Casper makes an appearance at the Oscars - it is in person. Right now he's busy finalizing our hysterical gay comedy A Four Letter Word which premieres at the Miami Film Festival this May. He is also in pre-production for a new drama entitled "Between Love and Goodbye."

With this busy schedule, I'm honored that Casper made time to read my forthcoming memoir "You Can Run" - and then wrote a great review for its pre-publication. Here's what he said:

“One could argue that Jesse Archer redefines what it means to be a gay traveler. But really, You Can Run stops at nothing short of redefining how to live one's life. WILDLY FUNNY, CRAZY, AND TRULY INSPIRATIONAL!
Casper Andreas; Actor, Filmmaker A Four Letter Word, Slutty Summer

Extending the Ticket

I've extended my stay in Australia (can you blame me?) for another week. I'm going this weekend up to Brisbane, Queensland, to see my pen pal. Having come all this way, she's worth the extra effort.

Yes, I have a pen pal. I wrote to the Australian consulate back then, and they connected me with Merryn. We have been writing to each other since 1988, and though I didn't keep a diary back then (my mother was a snoop), I was still a budding writer. All my adolescent thoughts and fears all went out to Merryn, in long letters. She is the single reason I survived junior high school. I could always escape reading about her life on a 2,580 acre sheep farm out in Armidale.

In 1990 I had saved $1000, and my father took me down under to meet her. We stayed with her family, and I got my first taste of travel. I was 16. I saw her again when she came to visit Oregon, and now she's a married businesswoman living a self-described "domestic life" in tropical Brisbane. We still write, a couple times a year now, not once a week like before, but she's still in my life. And that's rare. Who has a pen-pal anymore? Pen pals are a prehistoric thing of the past, something like a rotary phone or a traveling circus.

It's nice to know I can openly write about my life without fear of judgment. After all these years she's still reading, somewhere down under, at the other end of a mailbox.

Monday, March 05, 2007


GHB has been soaring in popularity in recent years in the party (and date rape) scenes. It's a clear liquid that you can't smell, can't taste (when mixed in a drink), and it gives a euphoric sexual high. That is, if you ingest the proper amount (generally 200 mg per 2 hours) -too little and you feel nothing. Too much, and you overdose. Mix it with alcohol and you die.

Most of the vomiting and overdoses found at big "functions" like Mardi Gras are GHB related. My friend Patrick in Los Angeles (27 years old and gorgeous) was a fan until one night in 2002 when he did too much. Perhaps it was a cumulative effect, perhaps he mixed it with a cocktail, but he got really sick, passed out, and shit his pants. His quasi-boyfriend/trick took him home, cleaned him up, and put him in bed. In the morning, Patrick was a cold blue corpse.

So why the rise in GHB popularity? Maybe the danger factor is just it. Or maybe the ease in acquiring it, the the low price, or the fact it's so easy to conceal. People can hide it in water bottles or any number of seemingly innocuous containers to shield it from police discovery if they're searched. At the house party I went to Sunday (last post), I picked up a bottle of Visine and squeezed into my eye. It burned my eyeball like acid. It was GHB.

Luckily the sink was right there which I bent into screaming. Still I have an inflamed eye which hurts like hell and is now infected. I don't wonder why -one of the main ingredients in GHB is detergent. This isn't helping my Mardi Gras recovery.

The guy with the "Visine" apologized profusely for leaving it out unmarked, but I should've asked first. In party situations, always take care with clear liquids.

Mardi Gras Marathon

They sure know how to throw a party in Sydney!

A brief rundown of the past 3 days...all blurred into one (day? Night? Lifetime?)

Priscilla heel pushed to wild acclaim through the parade. The drag queen didn't fall off despite the fact we spun her round and round. (I often left her to do round offs and kiss the crowd)--

The all night Mardi Gras party with 5 separate dance pavilions, kick ass dance shows, and outdoor chill out spaces. We left at 8am for....

The shocking wild card packed in the middle of this itinerary -- a morning brunch in the suburbs to celebrate Bam-Bam's mother's birthday. The entire extended family (sisters/brothers/nieces/nephews) were all in attendance. I was as coherent as possible wearing big Audrey Hepburn sunglasses and saying things like: "Thank you very much, but I couldn't possibly have a cucumber sandwich."

TOYBOX party all afternoon in the amusement park, and dance hall at Luna Park. All the rides were free, and the dance hall pulsating with thousands of hot bodies under the lasers. One woman screamed out as we left, "ToyBox is, speaking conservative, the absolute BEST party in the world!" And she was telling the truth.

Private party where I dropped GHB into my EYEBALL (I thought it was visine--more about that later) which seared my retina (I'm struggling to see out of an angry, inflamed right eye) but that inciden didn't stop me (I'm no quitter!) from hitting the final party of the weekend--
a 4 story megaclub called "Home."

After that I did go home -- where I re-learned how to sleep. It's like riding a bike.

Friday, March 02, 2007

Mardi Gras Demotion!

I bragged in a recent post that I had begged a producer and been granted the uber gay right to stand atop the Priscilla: Queen of the Desert HIGH HEEL in the Mardi Gras parade. I have now been informed that the producer was unable to get me on the heel, because they'd already promised some Sydney drag darling. Alarmingly, I have now been placed on the ground and ordered to "push" the gigantic heel down the parade route. In a gladiator skirt.

I sulk and my friends just say, "The producer worked really hard just to get you NEAR the heel." Is this some kind of a consolation?

My friends (who will also be at the base of this glittering heel) say it will still be a blast; ours is a very important role: the keepers of the stiletto. I moan. There's not even a wig involved.

This was supposed to be my shining moment. This was supposed to be glamour! But I won't tower over anyone. I will be a simple spartan pedestrian, pushing a two-story high heel with some no-name drag queen in my rightful throne. I'm forced to wonder -- what would Rosa Parks say?

I calm down when I remember I'm the keeper of the stiletto -an important role. And If a giant high heel happens to tumble out of control on Oxford Street and a hapless drag queen flies headlong into the crowds - I've done my job.

First Poppers..and now THIS?

The Harbour Party was held at a park overlooking the Sydney Operah House, the downtown skyline, and the Harbour Bridge. "Do you have a view like this in New York City?" they all ask. No. We don't. The actual party could have been just as fantastic as the view, if it weren't for the overzealous police - out in full force to bust EVERYONE. Namely, drug users.

As we arrived, sniffer dogs took an unlucky man off to the side where they proceeded to empty his pockets and make him remove his shoes. As the police (and dogs) were distracted, we RUSHED into the venue while other partygoers were seen rapidly ingesting all their drugs all at once, at the mere sight of police.

Sniffer dogs paced around the dance floor, and people avoided them like the plague, all 6,000 of us were suddenly allergic to dogs. Then, at the height of the party, all lights went on and the music went off. Due to the arrests and overdoses, the police had closed it for "Public Safety."

Public safety? Instead of keeping us in the safe, contained, enclosed party...the police unleashed everyone to run (and drive!) rampant all over Sydney. Real safe. Real smart. Will they do the same thing for Mardi Gras? We are all a bit tense. It may raid on our parade.

Read the Sydney blog posts.